


Beau of the Ball

by Lomonaaeren



Series: Advent Fics 2016 [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, M/M, Veela, Yule Ball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:05:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8734264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: Draco has been sulking since he heard about the Yule Ball and the fact that the Champions have to bring dates. And the problem is, it’s really hard to explain why.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is an Advent fic, in response to several requests for a sequel to “All Is Dust That Is Not His Heart.” Read that one first, or you won’t know what’s going on.

“Yes, we must take dates,” said Fleur, and she sighed as she cast an eye over the Hogwarts House tables. “I am not sure who I will take. It must be someone who does not drool over me, but is not unaffected.”

“Why can’t you take someone unaffected?” Draco asked, a little curious. Of course, there was probably only one person in the whole school who was completely immune to Fleur’s allure, and that was Harry Potter, who was also immune to the Imperius Curse.

“You are staring again, Draco.”

Fleur’s voice was soft and teasing, but it still made Draco glad that she was speaking in French, which the “studious” Ravenclaws around them didn’t understand. He felt his face heat up so fast that he knew he probably looked horrible. “I don’t know what you mean.”

"You are staring at my competition."

"I wasn't--I mean--"

Fleur laughed and put a hand on Draco's shoulder as she leaned across him to fetch the cheese. "I am glad to see you taking an interest in someone. I know that you did not feel comfortable doing so at home, where it might be the Veela allure."

Draco nodded slowly. He knew that his parents relied on him to make a respectable pure-blood alliance, of course they did, but it was hard at Beauxbatons, where the standards for being "pure of blood" were different. Someone might be more Veela than she looked, and you might fall under her spell even though you didn't want to. Fleur had largely protected him from that, and he was still young. But as he grew up, he wanted to--

Well, falling in love was silly. He knew that. Of course he knew that. Father had always talked about duty, and so had Mother. He knew they loved _him_ , but they were lucky to love each other. There were things more important than that, things that always came up when Father talked about the future of the family.

But Draco wanted to find someone he could live with. Someone who would laugh with him instead of at him, the way some of the Veela girls at Beauxbatons did, and who would appreciate the way that he tried to stand up against his father sometimes without going over the line into disrespect, and who could think he wasn't silly for feeling left-out and British in a French place.

His gaze went to the Gryffindor table again, where Harry Potter was laughing with some of his Housemates.

At least, a friend. And it looked as though Potter had a pretty good talent for making friends.

*

" _Eurghe."_

The sound was so expressive that Draco found himself shuddering in sympathy, even though he didn't know what it was about. He'd been on the way to the Great Hall for dinner, but he turned back.

Potter was standing in the middle of a circle of his friends, looking so disgusted Draco automatically checked the floor. No, someone hadn't thrown it up.

" _I_ think it sounds _nice_ ," said a Gryffindor girl whose name Draco didn't know, folding her arms and scowling at Potter.

"That's because you can go if you want to, Lavender," Potter snapped back. "You don't need to bring a bloody date and open the bloody Yule Ball!"

"Harry, language!"

"It might not be so bad, mate. I mean, why not ask one of those Veela girls? They're always looking over at you."

Draco rolled his eyes. That only proved the inferiority of a Weasley's intellect. As though any of the seventh-year "Veela girls" who had come to Hogwarts would want to go with a scrawny fourth-year with glasses, Champion or not.

"They're always looking over at me because they hate me for stealing Fleur's glory." Potter shook his head. "No, I have to find someone else. And I don't want to. I can't dance! I don't want to get up in front of everyone and dance!"

"Most undesirable," Draco drawled, walking back to join the group of Gryffindors. Dinner could wait. This was more entertaining. "You don't want to embarrass whoever you take as your date, do you, Potter?"

Potter gave a small smile at the sight of him. They'd formed a sort of quiet friendship after Draco had apologized for antagonizing him, and sometimes they talked together. But not usually in front of other people.

Draco found games boring when they went on too long with the same rules, though. _Let's see about changing this one._

"You should make sure that you have dance lessons first," Draco continued, and had to hold in his laughter at the sight of Potter's promptly horrified face. It was hard. "The sort that mean you're not likely to embarrass yourself. And your date," he added, as if he had just remembered the date.

"He doesn't need dance lessons! He's a natural flier! That means he's going to be a graceful dancer, too."

Draco sighed and drew a hand slowly down his face. Sometimes he despaired of Weasley, he really did. "Just because someone can fly doesn't mean they can dance. You ought to know, Weasley, since the only time you dance is if someone casts a charm at you."

Two of the Gryffindors Draco didn't know snickered. Draco decided that perhaps some people other than Potter in that House could be charming and intelligent after all.

"It doesn't matter," Potter intervened. "Professor McGonagall already told me that she _is_ going to make me take dance lessons."

Draco blinked. He hadn't expected his suggestion to find any favor. It had been a silly way of needling Potter, nothing more.

Now he thought of Potter gliding across the floor in the arms of some uncomfortable girl--or even a comfortable one, starry-eyed at the thought of dating the Boy-Who-Lived--and his stomach started to churn.

"Perhaps you should take her to the ball, then, Potter," he suggested feebly. "She's already a cat, you don't have to worry about your date getting catty."

No one laughed this time, and Potter only shook his head at him and walked away. His friends followed, leaving Draco alone in the corridor, with not even the fading heat of Weasley's glare to warm him.

Now that no one was there to see, Draco grimaced and put one hand over his stomach. It would _not_ stop churning. Maybe he had had too much exposure to plain English food.

*

“Did you hear, Draco? Leonie asked Potter to the ball, but he turned her down.”

Draco blinked and turned to stare at the pretty Veela who had always been one of Fleur’s acquaintances rather than her friends. Leonie was moping at the end of the Ravenclaw table, watching Potter as he laughed with his friends and sighing now and then.

Draco had heard about Potter resisting the Imperius Curse in class, which had to be part of the reason he could resist Veela allure. But it was still impressive in a fourth-year who didn’t have any of the special training Draco had received. The Weasley boy _certainly_ didn’t try to resist.

“I wonder why?” Draco said, and then scowled as he saw the Gryffindor girl, Lavender, who had been in the corridor give Potter a hopeful look. “Maybe he already has someone he wants to date?”

“Someone as beautiful as Leonie?”

Draco gave Fleur a glance. She sometimes still forgot that beauty wasn’t everything, even when she lectured Draco on remembering it. “Maybe he values something in his dates beyond beauty, Fleur.”

“That is true.” Fleur eyed Potter speculatively, then gave Draco a faint smile. “I find myself interested in him sometimes, no? If there were not rules that each of the Champions must bring a separate date…”

“I’ve heard he’s a horrible dancer,” Draco interrupted, which was true, sort of. “He’s going to have to take dancing lessons with his Head of House. He’ll probably embarrass whoever he takes to the Yule Ball.”

“I hope not,” said Fleur, and closed her eyes in a grimace that was probably due to the improperly-prepared potatoes the British thought were food. “For your sake.”

“What? What do you mean, for _my_ sake?”

“I mean that you will be embarrassed if he agrees to date me after all and you have to watch your best friend stumbling around the floor with him.”

“You said—”

“They might relax the rules.” Fleur smiled in the way of someone who often got people to relax the rules.

Draco did his best not to scowl for the rest of the meal. When he thought about it, it was sort of ridiculous that he even cared this much. Why _should_ he? Of course Potter was going to be stupid about who he took the Ball. If he had turned down a beautiful Veela girl, that was pretty much a given.

Of course, maybe Fleur would flirt her way into making whoever had created the rules relax them and let Champions date each other.

 _Potter would still look stupid,_ Draco thought savagely, and crammed more potatoes into his mouth. They were awful.

*

"I really don't want to do this anymore, Professor McGonagall."

Draco put down his book. He'd found, with a bit of snooping and dropping casual remarks around Gryffindors who had no brains in their heads, the room where Potter was taking dance lessons with the professor. He couldn't hear much, sitting on a window ledge that was located "accidentally" not far from the classroom, but he'd heard, through the closed door, stumbling and cursing and more than once a loud screech of a music charm stopping.

And now Potter came out with his face so white he looked as if he was made of curdled milk, and McGonagall followed him, shaking her head. Draco looked quickly at her and then away. She'd shown no sign of the unfairness that Father always talked about when it came to Slytherins. Then again, he wasn't a Slytherin.

"You _must_ know how to dance before you take a date to the Yule Ball, Mr. Potter!"

"But I hate it."

Draco swallowed back the snicker that wanted to erupt. Potter had his mulish expression in place. Draco knew it wouldn't pay to attract Professor McGonagall's attention _now,_ of all times, so he simply leaned back and watched in satisfaction.

"You must take a date, and you must dance with her--"

"Then maybe I won't take a date."

"You must, Mr. Potter! You're a Champion!"

"Not a willing one. I told you I didn't put my name in that stupid Goblet, and I mean it!"

Draco swallowed. He'd expected to be entertained by that spectacle, and in a way, he still was. But there was a dull ache under his breastbone that had started when Potter talked about not taking a date at all, and it was climbing higher as he sat there.

 _Heartburn?_ he thought, and shifted his weight. _From the bad English food._

"We'll revisit this when you're calmer, Mr. Potter," said McGonagall, and her nostrils were flaring. "In the meantime, ten points from Gryffindor for talking back to a professor, and if this were not outside-of-class activities, you would have detention, too!"

She slammed the empty classroom door on the way back into it. Potter stared incredulously at it, then stuck out his tongue.

Draco restrained a laugh as he dropped from the windowsill, and Potter put his hand on his wand as he spun around. Then he relaxed. "Hullo, Malfoy."

"Long day of dancing?" Draco asked, falling into step beside Potter as he began to walk. He was heading in the general direction of Gryffindor Tower, but Draco would make a point of splitting off before then.

"Yes! And learning cues, and trying to learn how to lead with someone taller than me, and not step on someone's feet when that's all I know how to do, and keep time with the music that changes constantly, and hearing how I should be able to dance because I can fly!"

"I think you fly wonderfully," Draco said, and then hastily rescued the compliment by adding, "But you aren't a wonderful dancer."

"Yes, I know," said Potter. "That's why I think I just shouldn't take a date. No one can be embarrassed by me if I don't have a date, and it's no more _irregular_ than being a fourth Champion in the first place." From the way he said "irregular," Draco could guess who must have said it first.

Draco coughed. Honestly, now his lunch was trying to come back up. "I think you should still take a date, though. Didn't one of Fleur's friends ask you to go?"

"Yes, but she didn't want to date _me_ ," said Potter dismissively. "She wanted to date a Tri-Wizard Champion. I want to go with someone who wants me for me."

"But that might mean you end up going by yourself!"

"Yeah? So? That's the way it is, then."

Draco just stared at him and tried to come up with reasons to tell him, things that would convince him a date was an essential idea, and keep him from social suicide. Because the reason he wanted Potter to have a date so badly was--was--

_Because I want to be the date._

Luckily, at that point, Potter turned up a staircase for Gryffindor Tower and waved his goodbyes, leaving Draco standing in the middle of the corridor, stunned, and definitely not suffering from heartburn or indigestion or those awful potatoes, as much as he'd like to blame all of them.

*

“Have you figured it out, then?” Fleur’s voice was gentle as she put a comb in her hair and then turned and surveyed the robes in her cupboard. They were in her room aboard the ship, which had been expanded a little since she’d been chosen as Tri-Wizard Champion.

Draco knew he would have to leave when she started to change, but for now, he could sit on her bed and complain. He sighed and stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t understand it. I mean, we’re sort of friends, but this is strange.” He glared at Fleur. “And why did you know, anyway?”

“Veela can sense attraction. And the waves of jealousy that were rolling off you when I told you about Leonie were distinctive.”

Draco closed his eyes. He had given himself away in a manner that would humiliate him in front of his parents, should he ever tell them.

But he was getting more and more certain that he didn’t want to tell them. He had been hiding certain things from them for years, after all, including how close he had got with some of the mostly-Veela students at Beauxbatons. And how he favored lots of classes more than he favored the discreet Dark Arts ones taught there. And how close he was to Fleur.

_Don’t let anyone lead or mentor you. Stand on your own. Show them that a Malfoy can be a leader._

That was the advice Father had given to Draco when they Flooed to the school, and again in most letters thereafter. Even though Fleur was his friend, a Malfoy wasn’t supposed to have friends who knew more than he did. He was supposed to remain coolly superior, above them, all the time. Draco already knew he hadn’t presented that impression since the first week of his first year, and then not for very long.

“What is so distressing about it, Draco? He is not dating anybody, therefore you do not have to deal with some tiresome English custom about faithfulness.”

Draco rolled his eyes. He knew as well as Fleur did that she planned to be faithful to whoever she chose as a husband, and to any boy she was dating while she was dating him. But it amused her to play up to stereotypes of Veela.

“I don’t want to be jealous like this. Especially not over someone who’s my family’s political enemy. Father says to make other people jealous of _you_.”

“That could easily be done, if you wanted. I could dress you up in gorgeous robes that would turn even Potter’s head.”

“But I don’t want that,” Draco whispered, and hesitated before he confessed his shameful secret. He only did it because he knew Fleur would never repeat it to anyone. “I want him to want me the way I am. To look at me and see that I’m someone worth having, even if I’m a Malfoy.”

“Even _though_ you are a Malfoy.”

“Yes.” Draco sighed.

“Well. Gorgeous robes are never a hindrance. We shall not make you unrecognizable.” Fleur turned to smile at him. “We shall simply make you _better_.”

Draco relaxed a little as he heard that. He thought he could deal with it. “All right. But they can’t hide my face. So no high collars. And no red or gold or other Gryffindor colors. He knows what I think of his ridiculous House. And no—”

He broke off as he realized Fleur was laughing at him, but gently. She patted his arm and nodded. “It shall be as you wish.”

“No, it won’t. Unless I get Potter.”

“Well. We shall simply have to make sure of that, then.” And there was an almost frightening gleam in Fleur’s eye as she Levitated one of her robes out of the cupboard and then began to trim and alter it. “I think you will be pleased with the results. And it will be pleasant to dress you up and see what colors complement you. Veela and not a Veela, with that gorgeous hair of yours…”

Realizing he had created a monster, Draco resigned himself to sitting back and letting her do what she wanted.

*

Draco breathed in the rhythm Fleur had taught him, the rhythm that wouldn’t strain the front of the robes, as he came slowly down the stairs and walked towards the Great Hall.

People were turning to look, maybe because he was alone, maybe because they thought he looked like a Veela but wasn’t a girl. Draco didn’t return their stares. In this, Father and not Fleur had taught him well. They were beneath the regard of a Malfoy.

He only looked ahead, at the doors of the Great Hall, and then sideways when he reached them and absolutely couldn’t keep marching forwards. Even then, though, he poured his regard like cold water over the Durmstrang and Beauxbatons and Hogwarts students who were gaping at him. His target was the only interesting one.

His target was standing with the other Champions, in green dress robes that flattered him—or would have if not for the disgusted expression on his face. He was alone, and kept edging away from a group of Gryffindor girls who tried to talk to him. He had his arms folded and his tie knotted so loosely around his throat that it looked as if it was about to fall off at any moment.

Draco felt his heartbeat accelerate. Part of him had always suspected that Harry was going to come alone, and had hoped that maybe, if this was just an infatuation, that would help Draco get over it. Draco liked elegant people who knew how to at least _pretend_ to respect the rules. Someone who acted like a lout would be beneath his notice, just like all the ones here.

But instead, seeing Harry as haughty and disdainful as he was made Draco’s mouth water.

 _He could at least have worn less flattering robes,_ Draco decided, and then turned and made his way slowly over to Harry. Harry watched him come with his face relaxing. Draco took that as a good sign because, frankly, he wanted to, and came to a stop in front of Harry with a little nod.

“Malfoy. Those are some—bright robes.”

Draco gave him a restrained smile. “Do you like them?” They were a soft blue, a color Draco had worried would make him look feminine. Fleur had snorted and told him he should be so lucky, before doing several spells that adjusted the cut and trim and made them look elegant as they swirled about him.

“I almost can’t tell.” Harry looked around. “No one else is wearing robes like those here.”

“Not even the Veela,” Draco agreed, a little smugly. He had told Fleur he would only let her adjust his robes if she promised he would look unique. That had made her smile instead of upsetting her. He knew she loved challenges like that.

“Do they mean anything in particular?” Harry studied the fall of lace around the collar of Draco’s robe. “I mean, are they French or something?”

“They’re Fleur’s design.” Draco turned his head as the doors of the Great Hall started to open up. There was music playing that sounded almost like trumpets, probably something solemn to invite the Champions in.

He swallowed and rubbed his sweaty hands together, so the sweat wouldn’t mark his perfect robes. He’d hoped for a little bit more time before the music sounded and he had to make his decision, but he wouldn’t get it. He would have to hope he did his best.

He turned and held out his arm to Harry.

There was no mistaking _that_ gesture, even if Harry didn’t know etiquette any more than he did dancing. He started blankly back and forth between Draco’s arm and his face. Draco waited, although now his sweat was actually dripping on the floor.

“You want me to go with you?” Harry’s voice was low and amazed.

“Of course I do,” Draco said, and swallowed against the constriction in his throat. This had been so much easier when he’d thought he would have more time. “I—if you want to go with me, that is.”

Harry considered his arm raptly. People were turning to look at them now. Draco felt as though sweat was coursing down his cheeks, and could only think that it was better than tears.

Then Harry gave a sweet, happy laugh that even Draco couldn’t mistake for mockery, and took Draco’s arm. “Why not?” he asked happily. “Why the hell not? Let’s go in and make some noise.”

Draco made a soft sound in the back of his throat before he could stop himself. “I didn’t want to date you so we could make _noise_ ,” he said.

“Really? I know you, Draco.” Harry’s eyes were intense as the buzzing started to rise around them and they entered the Great Hall. Draco found he couldn’t glance around even though he longed to know what the jealousy on their faces looked like. “And I know that you’re going to _relish_ this attention.”

Draco ducked his head, his cheeks hot. But he managed to get rid of the flush when he thought, again, about how there was no mockery in what Harry had said.

He did want the attention. He did like it. And he was going to get plenty of it with Harry Potter on his arm.

*

People stared at them, of course.

Draco only led Harry for one turn around the dance floor. Harry made a sort of terrified face that Draco had never seen on him when they approached it, and Draco, who could hear his father’s voice murmuring in his ear about generosity, only wanted to show people that _he_ could dance. They got through it without more than one crushed toe on his part and more than one stumble on Harry’s.

And then Draco led Harry over to a table where they could sit, and whispered into his ear, “Look at them look at us.”

Harry glanced around, and after a second, his shoulders started to shake. “They look like they’ve seen Voldemort walk into the room.”

Draco blinked a little, but smiled. Yes, that was it. People looked almost _afraid_ of them. “I wonder what they’re afraid of?”

Harry leaned back on the bench, arms folded as he grinned up at Draco. “Probably thinking they won’t have a chance with me if I like boys.”

Draco stared down at him, unable to have any other reaction to the smile on Harry’s face. His fingers tingled, and he swallowed.

“Weren’t you going to get me something to eat?” Harry still had that grin as he tilted his head further and fluttered his eyelashes at Draco. “I think I fancy a slice of cake.”

Draco hurried away, already so flushed that he was grateful for the exercise. Some people might think that his face was red because of the exercise. Draco knew that, but he hardly paused to do more than get a slice of cake and two cups of the red juice-like drink that was running from a fountain in the center of the table.

As he turned around, carefully balancing it, he confronted a girl with red hair. Draco blinked at her. She was Weasley’s sister, he thought, but he didn’t see any reason for her to confront him. She was a third-year. She wouldn’t even be here if one of the older students hadn’t invited her.

“I wanted Harry to invite _me_.”

Draco nearly rolled his eyes, his bewilderment melting like snow in spring. “Well, he didn’t. Excuse me.”

The girl seemed so puzzled that she didn’t try to stop him. Harry leaned out eagerly to take the slice of cake and the fork that Draco handed him, and sighed as he bit into it. Draco stared at the chocolate crumbs on his face before he realized he _was_ staring and looked away with a slight cough and a clearing of his throat.

“What did Ginny want?”

“She wanted you to invite her to the Yule Ball.”

“Er, why?” Harry asked, his fork poised above the cake. “I didn’t even think about asking her.”

Draco nudged him with a gentle elbow. “Well, you didn’t think of asking _me_ , either. We all know that you don’t _always_ have brilliant ideas.”

“Sometimes I need help, sure,” said Harry, admitting it so naturally that Draco blinked and tried not to scramble in his mind for words. “Hey, why didn’t you get a piece of the cake for yourself? It’s bloody good.”

“I prefer to watch you.” The words popped out, and Draco flinched a little at the reminder of what tended to happen to him when his mind went blank. But when he glanced up, Harry had a soft look on his face.

“Thank you,” he said, and went back to eating, although he had to eat more slowly because he was keeping one eye on Draco and one eye on the cake. Draco swallowed against his dry throat and did his best to smile back.

_Let’s hope I don’t disgrace myself before the evening’s out._

*

And he didn’t, although Draco thought some of that was Fleur’s doing more than his. Some of the people who glared at him and Harry didn’t dare to approach. The formal robes probably put them off, Draco thought, and stroked his sleeve.

The rest was down to Harry, though. He laughed, and talked, and made fun of the seventh-years who paraded around with deathly serious expressions on their faces, and leaned towards Draco as if he was whispering a secret when some of the Veela girls walked by. Draco felt his face turn pink, but laughed anyway.

He was where he had wanted to be.

Still, as the evening went on, Draco became conscious that something was missing. He fidgeted a little, and attracted Harry’s attention. “What is it?” he asked, his eyes on Professor Snape, who was across the room attempting to remove an enchanted mistletoe from above a doorway.

“I think—I don’t know.” Draco had to say it slowly, because he was so unsure himself. “Something’s missing.”

“I _told_ you you should have eaten some cake.”

“Nothing like that. Nothing from my stomach.” Draco reached out and tentatively pushed on his chest. “Something in here.”

“Hmmm,” said Harry noncommittally, and turned back to making faces at two Ravenclaw students who were so intently looking into each other’s eyes they had tripped over their own shoes.

Draco sighed. He would still have a good evening.

But he had hoped Harry would care a _little_ bit about what was missing from Draco’s experience, especially since he was so compassionate with everyone else.

*

“Draco, wait a minute.”

Draco turned back, his robes rustling softly around him. He reckoned that he had achieved what he wanted, but he was still unsatisfied. Well, he would just have to take things one day at a time, and hope that someday Harry would do as Draco had wanted him to.

Harry walked straight up to him, a bright smile on his face and something held in his left hand. It took Draco a long moment to focus on it. The clump of enchanted mistletoe that Professor Snape had been trying to remove from above the door.

Draco felt as though someone was sitting on his chest. He reached out a shaky hand to take the mistletoe, but instead, Harry waved his wand and it flew up to hang from the ceiling of the corridor above them. Then Harry moved towards him and laid his hands on Draco’s shoulders. Draco was breathing so shallowly that dark spots danced in front of his vision.

“I didn’t want to do this where everyone could stare the way they did when we danced together,” Harry whispered. “They’re always _staring_ at me. I should get at least one thing that’s private.”

Before Draco could even focus on that, Harry had leaned forwards and kissed him softly.

Draco felt as if his nerves were melting down his back and into his stomach. He reached out and cupped his hand around the back of Harry’s neck, feeling his sweat and his skin and his hair. And all the time, Harry’s lips moved against Draco’s as if he was talking to himself.

Harry finally pulled away and shook his head like someone had put bees in his ears. “Wow,” he whispered.

Draco had to dazedly nod. He put his fingers to his mouth and thought he could still feel Harry’s lips touching his.

“Good night,” Harry said, and now he was starting to look pale and nervous. He hovered for one more moment, staring at Draco, and then turned and ran as fast as he could up the stairs at the other end of the corridor.

Draco let his fingers linger on his lips for a few moments more, and then walked slowly away. His breathing was still shallow, but he didn’t feel like he was about to pass out anymore. He was thinking.

Harry was nervous. Harry would need some time to come around to the idea.

But when he did, Draco would be waiting.

Draco glanced down when the hem of his robes caught on a small crack in the stone floor, and smiled a little as he watched them shine in the torchlight. _I suppose they did the trick after all._

**The End.**


End file.
